


montreal

by aphaedite



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aggression, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Baz's POV, Drinking, Foster Care, Hurt Simon, Hurt/Comfort, I say fuck too much, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Pre-Slash, Protective Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Sad, The Mage (Simon Snow) is an Asshole, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, a little bit of simon's pov, a little dev/niall, i had to write from baz's pov because i can pine with the best of em, i know this and im sorry, i made baz hopelessly in love in this one, lower case (for the aesthetic), this is inspired by penelope scott's song montreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24956602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphaedite/pseuds/aphaedite
Summary: the watford school year is coming to an end, and simon is having a rough time. he picks up some new and unfortunate coping mechanisms. baz worries. and pines. per usual.(angst with a happy ending)
Relationships: Dev & Niall & Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Dev/Niall (Simon Snow), Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 35
Kudos: 151





	montreal

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! i recommend having a nice angsty playlist going on in the background as you read, as i had a nice angsty playlist going as i wrote. i hope you like it :) also i don't have a beta. i'm not even really sure what that is. but i did put this whole thing into one of those text-to-speech sites, and a nice british robot lady read it back to me. it took like an hour. it was torture, but i did find the typos.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!! :)

**baz**

tiredness makes a comfy fog in my brain as i drag myself up the stairs to the top of mummer's house. the hours i just spent in the library pouring over notes for finals week have completely drained me, and i can't think of anything better than curling up and feeling the happy warmth of sleep seep into my bones. there's no way snow's even awake to piss me off; it's half one and he is always insisting on needing his beauty sleep. you need lots of energy, apparently, to spend the day stuffing yourself with scones. it's goddamn cold outside, so he might have even closed the window. everything's coming up mill house.

i conquer the final step and quietly push open the door to our room with a happy sigh. it's dark and quiet. perfect.

it's perfect until the burning smell of alcohol hits me like a fucking truck, anyway.

it's freezing. (the window's open. of course it is. no fucking breaks from simon snow.) the lights are off, but the sliver of light creeping in from the hallway illuminates the chosen one pressed up against the foot of his bed, legs sprawled out in front of him. his right hand is loosely wrapped around the neck of a cheap bottle of vodka. (fucking skol. merlin.)

he's drinking. shit vodka? the chosen one and shit vodka. interesting.

i huff and close the door firmly behind me. this is fucking lovely. i make a production of flipping the lights on. snow winces and squeezes his eyes shut, groaning.

"what the fuck, snow," i growl. he winces again.

he runs the fingers of his free hand through his curls. "fuck's it to you, baz?" he slurs back, indignant and biting.

"having alcohol on campus is against the rules."

simon grins, it's mocking. maybe it's a sneer. "are you gonna turn me in, pitch?"

i throw my bag down and kick my shoes off by the door. "why wouldn't i?" i grumble.

simon opens his eyes, sizing me up and making his lips into a devastating pout. "because you really are good at heart, _bazzy_ ," he purrs.

he's _taunting_ me. merlin, i'm fucking done for.

"i am not good at heart. i'm horribly evil and vile," i spit. "crowley, snow, what the fuck were you thinking? getting sloshed the week of finals? oh right. how could i forget, you don't ever think. about anything."

he furrows his eyebrows and lets his head lull against the foot board. his eyes are closed, his eyelashes laying against his cheeks. it's sweet. he's so stupid. he's so pretty. fuck.

"really, why do you care," he drawls. "mm not bothering you."

"you're always bothering me, you fucking idiot." fondness finds it's way into my words but i can't imagine he notices. he doesn't notice anything.

he tips the bottle up to his lips and pulls a face. "fucking _awful_. never tasted anything this bad."

i narrow my eyes. "don't drink it then."

he grunts in response before taking another drink. "don't tell me what to do."

"crowley, you're an obnoxious drunk," i muse, crossing my arms. a little smile keeps sliding onto my lips.

i walk over to his bed to get a better look at him; there's a deep flush coming out from under his shirt collar that reaches the tips of his ears. the alcohol is bringing his blood to a gentle simmer, i can feel it from here. (i think he'd burn me, but if i got to touch him i'd happily go up in flames.) pretty shallow sighs keep spilling over his pretty parted lips. it's all i can do to not lick all the soft hot pink skin i can find until his breathing isn't so fucking shallow.

i sigh, reaching for the bottle precariously balanced in simon's fist, but he jerks it away, grunting and pressing it firmly against his stomach. i frown.

"don't you think that's quite enough, snow? you're already completely wasted. no need for anymore, yeah?"

that was _pleading_. i'm forever being too soft with him. why am i so bloody self-destructive?

it's his turn to frown. he looks up at me with big, sad eyes. "mm not wasted," he murmurs.

"you pretty well are, mate," i say, tilting my head. i'm enjoying this much less since seeing him frown.

he looks forward. then at the bottle in his fist. then at me. and then he crumbles.

he chokes on an exhale, pulls his knees to his chest and presses his face into them. his hands are on his elbows, his knuckles white from the effort of holding himself together. the curve of his spine is dragging his shirt up his back. he's made himself so small -- it's horrifying. i think one of my lungs collapses.

"please, baz. just. please." (i think it, but i won't say it, not now. i'm not that heartless.) "can you just. just leave me alone. please?" he says, finally, muffled and resigned. there goes the other lung. i'm too fucking worried to breathe anyway.

"have we got demons tonight, snow?" i mumble. he responds by pressing his head further into his knees.

it's impossible for me to walk away from him, like my legs are stone or the air is too thick to move through. or like my self-indulgent (self-destructive) tendencies are physically manifesting themselves as tiny hands poking through the floor boards and curling around my ankles, holding me in place. i do it though, walk away. too many seconds pass and i peel my gaze from him. the terrible second it happens i wish i could take it back.

i force myself into the bathroom to change. on my way to bed, i shut the window. simon doesn't even turn his head. i crawl into bed, it isn't all that i thought it would be.

fuck simon snow, ruining what should've been the best sleep of my life.

i spell the lights off and watch snow take too many more swigs from that fucking bottle. just as the exhaustion from earlier starts to tug at my eyelashes, he sighs and starts shuffling into an upright position, gripping his bed frame and letting it pull him up. he lazily spins the cap back onto the vodka and drops it in one of his desk drawers.

he lays down (falls down) onto his mattress, pressing his face into his pillow. i wait for him to crawl under the covers, but he never does.

jesus christ, snow.

»»——⍟——««

i startle awake to the sound of snow clambering around the room, slamming everything that can be slammed. the normal sting of morning sun on my skin isn't there; the curtains are closed. any other day he would've opened them first thing to spite me, he must have a sudden aversion to sunlight. it's a shame all of that ridiculous, boiling magic under his pretty skin can't save him from a hangover. (i'm sure i could, but i won't.)

he's struggling to push his dresser drawer closed. (there are clothes hanging out of it, he's not patient enough to tuck them back in, or he's too bloody upset to go at it with any tact.) he tries and tries, yanking clothes out and throwing them to the floor at random to get the fucking drawer closed. his chest is rising and falling rapidly and the air around us is shimmering. suddenly, his shaking hands fly up to his face, pressing his palms into his eyes and hunching his shoulders. his skin is flat this morning, pale. i can see the dark circles settling in under his eyes through his palms. snow takes a shuddering breath, like he's willing himself not to cry, and my stomach drops. i wish i could breathe the little life i have into him. i wish i could take him by the shoulders and give him everything. (i would. it's not much but i would let him take it all until i'm nothing. like the giving tree. in a fucking heartbeat.) he's alive, more alive than i'll ever be, but now it's different. it's dim. he's not the end of everything, a deadly comedown, always glowing -- exactly how i like him.

this isn't right, he realizes it too. he remembers himself. he remembers how he fixes things: pure and blunt force, shoving all of his everything at whatever he needs to. his hands turn into fists at his sides and he eyes the dresser like how he eyes me. (i wish it wasn't familiar.) he starts slamming his body against it. i don't think closing it is nearly as important to him as being as loud as fucking possible. i don't think he's ever been level headed in his entire life.

slam. "fuck."

slam. "fuck."

slam. he kicks the dresser. "jesus fucking chri-"

i roll onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow. "i'm certain that just about anything would work better than whatever the fuck _that_ is, chosen one."

anger (and magic) rolls out of him in waves, crashing into me, threatening to pull me out and slam me against the rocks. all of my skin is peeling off in big thick pieces, inside i'm nothing but a ribcage and lungs that _breathe_ simon snow. i know he can't see it, but i wish he could. he would finally understand and he would pull me under one long, final time, and i could drown and make a happy home in my ocean grave.

i hate this. i hate all of it. everything under the fucking sun.

he points a finger at me and he snarls. (actually fucking snarls.) "fuck. you."

he gives his dresser one more hard shove ("fuck!") and leaves it. finally. the drawer's still hanging out of it. he snatches his bag up off his bed and slams the door behind him.

i get ready and push his sodding drawer in on my way out.

»»——⍟——««

"i'm going to end it all and take you two with me if i have to study anymore fucking latin," dev groans, lowering his forehead to the library table with a thunk.

"i second that," niall agrees. he flicks dev's ear and that earns him a sneer.

"piss off," dev says.

"i'm more exhausted than is reasonable for a living being. why don't we pick this back up tomorrow, gentlemen?" i say.

"sounds good to me," niall says, closing his books and stuffing them in his bag.

"no," dev says. "no more latin. ever. i'd rather fail. i'll meet up with you guys when you're done with latin."

"you're such a prat," niall says, grinning. it's fond. it's nice.

"i am not a prat, i just have limits. three hours in a row of fucking latin is one of them."

"you don't see baz and i complaining."

"you haven't even been studying!" dev snaps. "you've been too busy _bothering me_. and baz is a poor point of reference. he'd study every hour until his dying day, with no complaints, if it meant he could out-rank bunce."

"you two are insufferable," i say, smiling. i don't mean it.

i pack up the rest of my things and wave goodbye to dev and niall. i love them. they are my favorite things, my favorite constants. (i know what you're thinking, but snow isn't a constant. no one could argue that. he's phantasmagoric, at best. fleeting, dreamy.) banter with dev and niall is simple, grounding. they don't ask questions and they understand. it's easy to be kind to them, easy to share my existence with them. i don't mind not being the center of their universe and they don't mind not being the center of mine. they are the easiest parts of my life.

(on the contrary, simon snow. loud and tough and confrontational and ridiculously thick. the unstoppable force and the immovable object. a solar flare, an open fire. every day is the end, and every day i hopelessly throw myself to the flames. he exists and i burn up from the inside out. i'm not naive enough to believe there are any other options. the end of days could come and go. plague, pestilence, flood, and famine and i would be just fine until simon emerged from the shower with a towel around his waist.)

i head back to our room. i've been dreading it since snow slammed the door shut this morning. i know he hates me, and i'm content to pretend i hate him back, but the way he looked at me. the way his voice sounded, the way his eyes emptied. it's been wearing a hole in my chest.

he nearly went off in elocution today. he'd been in a steady state of nearly going off since the dresser incident, and then i poked at him. teased him in front of everyone for a stupid mistake. magic was pouring out of him, thick suffocating smoke choking us out. the room shrank. if bunce hadn't been there to take him out to the hallway and do whatever it is she does, we would have gone up in flames, the lot of us.

sometimes i think about possessing bunce for a day, sitting with snow at breakfast as he rambles and stuffs himself full of scones, being the one to calm him down before he goes off, walking to class with him, getting to smile at him. but i think if i got a taste of a civil, smiling simon, i wouldn't ever give bunce her body back. penny would end up a lap dog for life, and simon would find himself with a missing roommate and a suddenly very affectionate best friend. and i guess someone out there would find themselves with a very odd pomeranian.

our door swings open just before i get to it, simon all but falling out of our room. his eyes are wide and wary, his nails are digging into his palms. he looks and smells like the second half of a bottle of vodka.

"merlin, snow. are we making a habit of this then?"

he startles when he hears my voice, eyes flying up to meet me and shoulders tensing. he looks through me. he turns toward the stairs but i stick my arm out and catch him by the shoulder. he leans into it a little, unintentionally, letting me hold him up.

"snow," i say. i try to be firm, i try not to be soft. "where the fuck are you going?"

"'m goin' on a walk," he mumbles innocently. he blinks. he exhales. he blinks. his eyes are glassy.

"it's nearly midnight and you're piss drunk," i deadpan, "again."

he shrugs, not seeming dissuaded in the slightest, so i continue, "surely you don't want your precious mage to see you like this, hm?"

his eyes narrow and he slides out from under my grip with as much coordination as he can manage. his voice is thick and low and hateful. "i don't give a _fuck_ what the mage thinks about me."

the world has turned upside down. the mage's heir doesn't give a fuck about the mage. i take a step back. he looks at me like he's waiting for something, i don't give him anything. all of his movements are heavy, languid. he blinks hard and stares at me for a moment, before stumbling down the steps out into the courtyard. i let him go.

i take a shower, i put the water all the way to boiling, to hell. i wash him off of my arm, out of my hair. i scrub my chest raw. when i'm done with my skin, i take a wire sponge to my brain. _just for tonight._ i purge simon snow from my nerves and from my lungs, just for tonight. it hurts too badly. _he's_ hurting, for fuck's sake. he's drowning himself in something comparable to hand sanitizer.

and i let him leave. i always let him leave.

i open the door to the bathroom. all that work with the wire sponge was for nothing. the only tangible thing in our room tonight is snow's absence. i choke on it.

i wait for him. i stare at the door and blink and stare and blink until i can't hear anything but all of the fucking nothing. i lay down, the rustling of the covers is enough until i am still. i open the window. it's better. i pretend i can hear him breathing, and i fall asleep.

he doesn't stagger back to our room in the night, in the morning even. i see him at breakfast, finally. he's wearing yesterday's clothes. his hands are shaking. his eyes are glazed.

i spent the night plagued with nightmares of snow curled into himself in the wavering wood, cold and pale and dead. that's how they ended, anyway. they started with him lit up and alive and burning. in the middle, he was falling. fast fast fast and fast. it was quiet. he was falling so quickly, ripping through the atmosphere, but i still somehow had all the time in the world to save him. i didn't, but i did watch. in awe. until my time and his ran out. the ground is unfortunately one of the few things that can stop simon snow. 

»»——⍟——««

simon takes his finals. i watch him do it with my own cursed eyes. he falls asleep and wakes up in his bed two nights in a row. he's grumpy in the mornings but he can close dresser drawers, he can keep the pain out of his eyes. he smiles and he laughs and he tells bunce i'm plotting. (i hear it with my own cursed ears.) it fills me up, things are normal again. not good, i never said normal meant good. but i at least know what i'm working with, i don't have to worry. i can pine, i can eat lunch with dev and niall and not feel like i'm keeping the fall of the greatest mage to myself. these few days are a sigh of relief.

and then the night before the first day of summer comes.

**simon**

hot. hot. everything is so hot and dry and prickly. my skin is burning, the air is on fire. i can't breathe fire. i can't breathe air i can't breathe anything. my lungs are gone or my throats been torn out or my head isn't attached to my body anymore. sweat is clinging to me. static. and i can't crawl out of my own skin but it's pressing on my ribcage and my bones i'm going to burst. my skin is going to burst and they'll have to scrape it off the wall like old wallpaper and my blood will stain the porcelain. i stain everything why can't i leave anything be.

everything is blurry am i talking? is that me? what am i doing. everything is fuzzy my hands (?) are still at the ends of my arms i think. they are cold. would i know what was going on if i was sober or is the air really missing or do those not have anything to do with one another? my hands are cold? but everything is so hot how are my hands cold when me and the air and the room and the bathtub and my skin are all on fire. hot and dry and sucking. the humdrum? something is pulling anything breathable i try to force down my throat away from me i'm begging them to stop i can't breathe i can't think.

**baz**

there's a celebration of the end of the year in the courtyard. dev and niall convinced me to go with them. there are fold-out tables with grilled food and picnic blankets and string lights. as soon as i heard about the food i figured i would see simon, curled over a plate stacked a mile high, shoulder to shoulder with bunce. i don't see him anywhere, but i don't see penelope either so i decide not to worry. dev snuck a couple bottles of fruity wine in; he and niall are more than a little flushed after splitting the first one.

"c'mon baz! loosen up!" niall grins, shoving the second bottle at me.

dev is laying on his back across our blanket with niall pressed into his side. they're staring at the night sky with spacey smiles. "pull the stick out of your arse, baz," dev giggles. "it's a special occasion."

i groan. "this is peer pressure."

niall rolls over onto his elbow, he's got the goofiest smile plastered on his face. i can see all the little stars filling him up from his toes and spilling out of his eyes. "is it working?"

"i'm afraid not," i say. they both pout.

niall collapses back down, resting his head in the crook of dev's elbow. he reaches up and weaves his fingers through dev's. they smile at one another. softly. their smiles are always pretty little secrets, it's not just the wine.

it's too intimate, i'm intruding by watching. i look away, up. my eyes settle on the stars. pretty little secrets up there too, secrets between me and time. i get to see all the little heavenly bodies and time says, "between you and me, some of these stars have been gone for a long time," and i say, "thank you for saving them for me."

i get back to the room late, expecting snow to be safely tucked into bed like he has been the past few nights, perfectly sober and safe, sprawled out with his shirt unbuttoned to his navel and the window open. it's been a relief to see him go back to normal, to not have to worry. i chalked his drunken nights up to an extreme reaction to teenage dramatics and let myself believe that was it. but as i scale the steps to our tower, the air grows thicker and thicker with magic. my heart picks up speed. smoke settles in my lungs and stings my eyes. (no matter how many times we suffer through this, my lungs still burn the same way every time.)

i run, the ground rumbles under my feet. i throw our door open and see waves of smoke rolling from under the bathroom door. i jiggle the door handle -- locked. i hear sobs and heaving from the other side of the door, horrible, awful choking noises echoing in my ears. i waste no time spelling the door off it's fucking hinges, no time for grace.

i see snow. he does not see me.

he's sitting on the floor of the bathtub, curled into himself, panting, hyperventilating. every time he tries to pull a breath in he chokes on it and sobs. he's hysterical. his eyes are wild and unfocused, all sorts of upsetting things swimming around behind them. his hands are gripping his arms, hard enough to make his knuckles white and promise tomorrow's bruises. there's an empty bottle next to him, some nondescript alcohol, i presume. no label.

he's muttering something to himself over and over again. something like "no. nononono ple. _please."_ heheaves, willing himself to breathe. terrified, strangled noises explode from all over, bouncing off the walls, crowding out every other thought in my brain until it feels like we're going to die. like _he's_ going to die. he can't die. _"let me breathe_ ," he pleads with something i can't see.

"snow," i say. i am calm, i have to be. i am gentle. i take a step forward, slow, steady. "you can breathe, you have to."

he doesn't hear me, he doesn't react.

he's shivering but the air is hot, unbearably so. i can see the sweat coating simon's skin, slicking his hair to his forehead, soaking his clothes.

"snow," i say again. this time i'm firm, commanding. my ears are ringing. i can't feel my head.

his nails tighten into the skin of his elbows, i can see blood on his fingers. then i decide i don't see anything. (i can't worry about that now.) i walk forward and kneel down next to the bathtub gently. i reach out and pry his fingers from his arms and hold his hands firmly. i decide that his blood isn't on my fingers. he tries to jerk his hands away, his panting worsens. i don't give an inch, i can't. i hold him tight.

"simon," i say. i'm pleading now.

"cold," he chokes out. "my hands?"

"i've got your hands, simon. you're okay. you can breathe."

he is not okay. why does this feel like the end of the world, more than it ever has before. "this will end in flames"? right now? is this the end? aleister fucking crowley. it's not enough. not how i wanted it. too many minutes and he's not breathing and he's going to pass out or go off or die.

he lets out another wrenching sob, shivers racking through his body, his muscles tensing and untensing spasmodically, fitfully. his eyes screw shut. his hands are trembling in mine. how do you bring someone back from this?

i flip his hands over, knuckles down against the rim of the tub, and rub circles into his palm with my thumb, praying to every god i can think of that it will ground him. that he won't go off in our bathtub and take me and the whole tower down with him.

i compel him to look at me, to see me. to see that i am here and that i will make him okay. i shove white, hot fear back down into my stomach and push _i have you always_ down his fucking throat.

his magic is nauseating; my body is in shambles from it and the smoke. i keep blinking away tears. i can't keep myself from wondering how long he's been sitting here in our bathtub, from wondering why he's drinking and what made him go off. his blood is on my fingers, i can smell it. i try to focus.

"simon," i say, pressing my thumbs into his palms again. "you're losing some magic. do you think you could try to pull some of it back in?"

waiting for him to breathe is like watching someone tie a noose for you. watching him do anything is like someone tying a noose for you. (he's going to kill me.)

his eyes snap open. i think he might even see me.

he _breathes_. it's quick and panicked but it's a start.

"that's lovely, simon. thank you." i give his right hand a gentle squeeze before letting go to push his curls off of his forehead. his eyes flutter shut, it's the most gentle thing to come from him tonight. (maybe ever. i want to kiss the tears off his eyelashes.) his other hand tightens on mine and he sobs again. "could you try to pull some of your magic back for me? please?"

he breathes again, fuller. it's productive. he's wonderful. i love him.

"you're doing so well," i whisper. i can feel his magic retreat back into him, slowly. the sweet nothings are everything to me and they fall out so easily. "so, so well."

"baz," he croaks. " _please_."

my heart breaks, for the twenty seventh time this week.

"what do you need from me, simon? use your words." i don't mean it in a mean way, honest. i hope he can tell.

his eyes trail down to the blood on his fingers and he whimpers and gasps. we can't have that.

i reach out and gently tilt his chin up until his eyes meet mine. "simon, please look at me. alright?" he gives me a jerky nod. "what do you need from me?"

he sucks in another quick breath before rasping, "in here. baz? please."

"do you want me to get in the tub with you, snow?" i'm gentle.

it's okay to need things.

he nods.

i crawl into the tub, smooth and gentle, tucking my legs into me and away from him. i press my back into the sides of the bathtub **,** my head bumps the faucet. he turns to face me, eyes closed. he gropes around the tub and finds my hand and squeezes hard. it hurts.

"baz," he whimpers. "i can't breathe."

"you are breathing, simon." (if i say his name enough will he come back to me? where is he?) i, so gently, so slowly, place the pads of my fingers to the front of his neck, right where i have always thought about sinking my teeth into. i can feel the static hum of air through his throat. "i can feel it."

he lets my fingers rest on his adam's apple. he takes a breath, it's smooth. like he remembers, like it's easy again.

he reaches up to my hand and curls his fingers around it, bringing it up to his forehead and pressing the back of my hand to it.

"it's hot," he whines.

i pull my wand from my pant leg and point it at the window with my free hand. " **is it just me or is it hot in here** ," i cast, quietly. the window flies open and pulls the extra heat out of the room before closing itself back. it's a good spell for house fires, or if you burn something on the stove. i would've done it earlier if i hadn't been worried about it throwing simon out into the courtyard, but i think most of his magic is tucked back under his skin now. i set my wand just outside of the tub.

simon sighs. (i'm delighted that he has enough extra air to sigh.) he keeps my hand pressed to his forehead.

he starts to shift his body a bit, lifting himself up so he can readjust his legs, before he gasps and his eyes go wide. he lets go of my hand to clutch the rim of the bathtub. "fuck."

"what's wrong?" i ask. urgently, stupidly.

he squeezes his eyes shut.

"too much. baz."

"simon. what is it?"

he shakes his head. "don't wanna be drunk anymore," he whispers. "'m dizzy."

"i don't know any spells to sober you up, snow. i'm sorry." i really am.

he nods, sitting himself back down and finding my hand again and linking our fingers together. he leans all the way forward and rests his forehead on the exposed skin on my shoulder. my breath hitches and i curse myself for it. i can see the back of his neck, it's flushed, just like the rest of him. his skin is so _hot_ and it's _touching_ me. his other hand creeps up to rest on my forearm and grabs a handful of the cloth covering it. i forget to think, i forget to remember how to think. his eyelashes are fluttering against my collar bone, his pretty curls are fluttering against my neck and _merlin_ i can't _think_.

"you're cold, baz," he mumbles.

i can feel his breath, over and over again, catching on my chest.

"breathe," i remind simon. (it's a very hypocritical thing to say in this moment.) ( _breathe_ , i remind myself.)

a little hum from his throat vibrates against my chest and he takes a deep breath. his grip on the sleeve of my sweater loosens.

he's still trembling, his eyes stay closed. his shirt is soaked in sweat and clinging to him. i really need to get him out of the bathtub. at some point. maybe. or maybe we can stay like this forever.

"how are you feeling, snow?"

"i can, like, see. and feel the rest of my body again. that's nice." (twenty eighth heartbreak.)

he gives our hands a light squeeze. "what's happening? not even going off feels this bad," he murmurs against my skin.

"a panic attack, maybe?" i murmur back. "do you want to talk about it?"

"fuck. baz. the mage. i don't, he doesn't." his breath is speeding up again, i didn't mean for that to happen.

"breathe, simon. use your words."

he's still a moment, he breathes.

and finally: "another summer is going to take my fucking life, baz."

"usually you're okay. why is this summer different?" i know it's not particularly comforting, but it's all i can think to say. i just want him talking.

he rocks his neck a little, playing with the weight of his head on my shoulder.

"i don't. nothing, i guess. i'm just. just tired. i'm tired of feeling. like. he doesn't. hasn't -- don't _fucking_ say it, baz." he exhales sharply, recollecting himself. "i'm tired of feeling like a fucking _pawn_. like, he uses me and gets me to do his bidding, or whatever, and then just throws me away at the end of the school year. to a fucking care home. where i can't fucking see penny or fucking eat and i have to sleep on a shit mattress in a room with eleven other boys and. and. and he never _fucking_ _says_ _anything_. just sends me off without a word." he hiccups. "he has a _house_ , baz. i just. i don't know. i know he doesn't love me, not really, but i don't understand why he has to treat me like he doesn't care about me at _all?_ i. i. just can't take it."

oh.

i guess i'd be pretty fucking upset about that too.

he continues, "it. it just got too much. i just feel like. like fucking awful all the time. like shit. for like two months. another summer, baz. i _can't."_

at some point he started crying again, not panicked tears -- quiet tears. exhausted tears, collecting on the collar of my shirt. i do things for the first time since he leaned on me. (stupid things. i think the tiny self-indulgent hands are breaking through the bathroom tiles.) i uncross my legs, gently placing them on either side of snow. i pull him into me; he lets me. one of my hands is with simon's, and i start sliding my thumb across his knuckles. the other hand flies up to his back, then the nape of his neck, then into his hair. i'm so hesitant. i don't mean to be. i'm trying to be consoling, soothing, but years upon years of want and denial are hard things to forget in one night.

i start whispering all sorts of unhelpful things.

"i understand." "it's alright. it's okay." "you're okay."

i work my fingers into his scalp as he cries. now that the panic and adrenaline has mostly cleared out, it's starting to dawn on me how fucking insane this whole thing is. i was in this same tub four nights ago trying to scrub all of the simon off of me, and now i'm holding him, mucking my skin all up again.

i lean my head down and whisper, "i'm sorry, snow," into his hair. (insane.)

"you called me simon," he mumbles sweetly, letting go of my hand and bringing his shaking fingers to trace my jaw. he turns his head so that his ear is on my shoulder. i can't see his face but i can feel every one of his breaths fan across my neck. i try to suppress a shudder. it half works.

"no, i did not."

"yes, you did."

"you needed me to," i concede. i hope it doesn't sound as breathless as i feel.

"i still need you to."

"what are you doing, snow?" i ask. his fingers stop. that's not what i wanted (i could never want that to stop), so i add, "it's okay," and his fingers trail down from my jaw to my collar bone, rounding over my adam's apple on the way down. his breathing is almost even. (i'm completely fucking falling apart.)

"you're being so nice, baz," he breathes. "thanks."

i don't say anything. simon is pulling all of my words from the base of my throat with his pretty fingers.

"i like this better than fighting," he whispers.

will he remember this tomorrow? am i dreaming? does it matter?

"me too, snow." i feel his smile against my neck, but he doesn't say anything. "are you feeling well enough to get up?"

he's drawing constellations (brand new ones) all across my neck and my jaw and my shoulders, little sparkling trails of stars left in his wake. he's the kind of person that could do that. the kind of person that could put new stars in the sky, give them stories, give them names. maybe he's tracing us, like this. maybe he'd call it "the collapse of the vacuum" or "divine intervention." the prettiest ends for everything.

"think so," he slurs. "but i don't want this to end."

i swallow.

"it's late." that's all i say.

he huffs.

"you're pretty," he whispers. light. airy. like it's nothing. because he's impossible.

merlin, i can't breathe.

"you're drunk, snow."

"maybe, but you're always pretty. you'll still be pretty tomorrow."

maybe this was how he planned to kill me all along. not with poison or fire. not with the sword of mages. but by telling me he thinks i'm pretty even when he's not drunk.

"we have spare rooms," i say. because i'm so, so easy.

he sits up to look at me and i immediately miss the feeling of his skin. at least he's still holding my hand.

his eyebrows furrow. (he's perpetually confused.)

"what?"

"you could come to, um, my house? for the summer." merlin, i sound like him. 

"i, um." his fingers tap anxious songs across the tendons on the back of my hand. he pulls his hand away, shaking his head. "you're joking."

"you don't have to, obviously," i snap, getting defensive. snow winces. (i'm not good at being vulnerable. _of course_ he wouldn't just completely trust something like that coming from me.) "no, fuck. i'm sorry. i'm serious. about the offer."

i breathe and finally fucking say what i mean.

"i understand you. i understand how shitty it would feel to be treated like that. i don't. want that. for you." my voice gets quieter with each word. "and it wouldn't be an inconvenience to me or my family; we have the room. so why not?"

he shakes his head. "the mage?"

"would he notice your absence? you said he didn't stay in touch, right?"

he shrugs, a pained look on his face. "yeah. he wouldn't notice."

"is that something you would want? to stay at mine for the summer?"

he nods. "yeah, i think so. if. i mean. if you're really okay? with that?"

"i am," i assure.

he smiles. "okay."

"well, that's settled then. hm?" 

"let's get you to bed," i say, standing, swiftly, smoothly. (i'm floating. happiness is getting all over the bathroom floor. it's a disaster.)

i offer my hands to snow and he takes them, letting me pull him up. he sways and i tighten my grip, but the dizziness seems to pass quickly. i tell him to sit on the toilet's lid, he does. i clean the dried blood from my hands and out from under his fingernails the second he is situated. he doesn't mention it, only flashes me a guilty look. i wet a washcloth and start smoothing the curls off of his forehead and wiping the tear-tracks from his cheeks. i don't want him to have to sleep like this, covered in sweat and leftover panic.

he says something and it's so small i almost miss it.

"i thought you hated me," he says, quiet, exposed.

"i thought _you_ hated _me_ ," i parrot.

"well. i don't."

"me neither."

"why did you act like you did, then?" he murmurs.

"habit," i say. it's a pathetic excuse. "because i'm a coward and in love with you," is the kind of admission he deserves.

he's quiet after that. i clean him up as much as i can with a wet cloth (i'm trying to soothe him more than anything) and leave some pajamas for him on the sink before closing the bathroom door behind me. before i left him to change, i grabbed the bottle snow had been drinking from. he gave me a curious look, but he kept his mouth shut. the second i hear the door click shut, i toss the bottle out the window to the merewolves.

i'm probably enjoying this too much -- the taking care of him. i keep checking myself in the mirror to make sure i didn't somehow magically wish my bunce-possessing-fantasy into a reality. i haven't. i'm still me. some dream version of me that smells like simon snow.

he comes out of the bathroom. he looks better, he's mostly fine now. there are still some scattered sniffles, and he can't seem to stop shivering even though i know he's never been cold in his life. but he's breathing, smiling, all of those wonderful things.

"so. we're. are we friends now?" he asks, a goofy grin hanging from his lips.

i hum. "don't be too hasty."

he smiles.

"i feel less hopeless, less shitty," he says.

i smile.

"i'm glad to hear it."

i think we might be the only two people in the whole world. and he's staying with me for the summer. and i'm on top of the world. could it have always been this simple?

he looks at me with half-lidded eyes and tilts his head, furrowing his eyebrows like he does when he's studying with bunce. "you. you really are very pretty, baz. hair and. shit." he reaches out and smooths a piece of my hair between his fingers. "you can't. i don't. we can be nice to each other tomorrow, too," he whispers.

he's still touching me. my blood is thrumming in my ears. my heart is swelling, pressing against all the walls of my chest. "i will," i choke out.

he steps forward and leans his forehead to my chest. "me too." he takes a deep breath. "i, um. i like you like this." 

"like what?"

"soft." he pauses. "a little nervous. do i make you nervous? you make me nervous. sometimes."

i make some sort of horribly embarrassing affirmative noise. is he trying to kill me? i can't make my mouth work. i can't make myself say anything.

he pulls away. "fuck. i shouldn't have said anything."

i quickly shake my head. "it's okay."

"no, baz. fuck. i'm sorry. i-"

"snow."

"you don't have to say anything. actually, please don't. it's-"

" _simon._ " 

"what?" he snaps. his face twists like he's waiting for me to insult him. i can't really blame him for that, i suppose. 

i swallow. "you make me nervous, too." i breathe. "i think you're pretty, too."

"oh." gorgeous roses bloom across his cheeks and i am closer than i have ever been to being able to kiss them. "really?"

"really. crowley, _yes_." 

i reach out and place my hands on either side of his neck, stroking his jaw with my thumbs (because i'm being _bold_ ). his eyes flutter shut and he goes limp in my hands and _merlin_ it's lovely. 

"but," i start and his eyes fly open. i can feel his heart beat under my fingers. (i really do seem to make him nervous. i can't even put into words how thrilling that is.) "i think we should wait and talk about this tomorrow."

"why?" he asks, a hint of a whine coloring his words. he brings his arms up and curls his fingers around my wrists. 

"because you're drunk, simon. and you've had a rough evening." he pouts and i frown. "don't do that. i think we should get some sleep, okay?"

he's still pouting. i don't like it, even though it's very endearing. 

i sigh, making my voice soft. "i like you. i do." (we have matching blushes now.) "we can talk about this tomorrow. as soon as we wake up, if you want. i'll feel the same."

he closes the gap between us to wrap his arms around my waist. 

"you promise?" he mumbles against my chest, exhausted.

"i promise." i kiss the top of his head.

"tomorrow?"

"tomorrow."

»»——⍟——««

**Author's Note:**

> that's it! my first fanfiction! i spent like two weeks writing and editing and i've poured over it so many times i can't tell if it's good or not anymore haha. i noticed, while writing this, how much i love parentheticals. they're so fun!
> 
> anyway, i hope you liked it! have a nice day!! 
> 
> also i would literally cry if i got left comments please give me your thoughts
> 
> also!!! i am literally in the process of writing something else right now!! it will be chaptered, angsty, homosexual, and set in the 80's. if that interests u, stick around!! 
> 
> <3


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